


Break In, Snap Out

by Patronoftheravens



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Breaking and Entering, Eventual Smut, Guns, M/M, Modern verse, Violence, i was inspired watching venom, not rn, symbiote tardif, thief dismas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22074973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patronoftheravens/pseuds/Patronoftheravens
Summary: A job gone wrong and now there's an alien parasite in him. Maybe parasite is a bit too strong of a word.Hi, I'm taking the Darkest Dungeons characters and making shit weird. My name's Gamma and I like AUs, weird AUs. Like this one! Check it out.
Relationships: Bounty Hunter/Dismas (Darkest Dungeon), Bounty Hunter/Highwayman (Darkest Dungeon), Dismas/Tardif
Kudos: 4





	Break In, Snap Out

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, first chapter, how's it going. Don't expect regular updates so bookmark this if you like it. Also write me on Greetingsadventurer on tumblr to pester the shit out of me if you like it.

The email notification stares up at him from his phone screen. It’s from a name he doesn’t recognize, an email he doesn’t recognize, but a subject he knows all too well.  _ New Job _ . That’s all it says. It’s from a Liam Knight. He tucks his phone back into his pocket, steps off at his stop, and walks up out of the underground into the London air. 

He wouldn’t be living in London if it weren’t for the job opportunities. He’s got a stable day job at a local pub, The Bowman. Catchy name. It’s an old pub too. The rafters and floorboards creak in equal measures and there’s a collection of stains on the bar under layers of varnish. They add a certain character to it though, a certain charm that attracts almost too many patrons. The owner, a lovely woman by the name of Ester Clasen, recently moved from Norway to take the tavern off of her friend’s hands while he was off in South Africa doing research as odd as it sounds for a barkeep to be doing research. Apparently, the bar is just a little extra money on the side. Typical of these rich kid types. 

He walks past The Bowman on his way to his flat. He’s off for today, only works four days a week. As he opens the doors to Tulipwood, the complex his flat belongs to, he notices the front desk is empty. It usually is this time in the afternoon. Rosie’s out having her smoke probably, too busy to man the front desk when the only one that comes in or out is himself and old Charlie down the hall. Just as he’s about to start heading up the stairs (elevator’s still broken. Damn thing), Rosie comes in through the back door and stubs a cigarette out in the ashtray. 

“Afternoon, trouble,” she huffs as she takes her seat and opens the most recent tabloid.

“You know I’ve not been causin’ any trouble as of late, Ms. Rosie. ‘Specially not causin’ trouble for you.”

“Mmhm. Next time the bobbies show up at my desk askin’ after you, be sure to tell ‘em that.”

“You are most generous indeed, Ms. Rosie. Afternoon to you then,” he tips his head in farewell before heading up the stairs. 

Six flights may be considered a lot for some, but after a few years living there, he’s gotten quite used to it. He unlocks the door to his flat, hangs his coat on the hook, and toes his shoes off. It takes him a moment to get settled on the couch, mug of coffee in hands. He cracks his laptop open and immediately clicks to the email he got on his way home, the one from that Liam Knight fellow. 

_ Dismas,  _ it starts out with his name. So this Liam fellow must have picked him up off of one of his contacts around the internet. Dismas keeps reading,  _ I work for the government, particularly the branch that deals with, well, let’s just say matters that are rather clandestine. I’m one of the head researchers for a branch that they’re calling CERE. I need you to get in and steal something from the main hard drive. I can get you mostly anything you need, but I need to meet with you in person first. Respond to this email with a place and time and I’ll be there.  _

_ Sincerely, Dr. Liam Knight. _

Dismas finds himself tsking as he reads. Sending out information like that in an email in this day and age? Unwise. However, the address used looks more like a personal one. He can only hope that it isn’t checked by whoever Liam works for. If they are watching, well, Dismas is used to covering his tracks. He starts to type a response.

_ Liam,  _

_ Thank you for the request. I could use a little extra at the time, and you best be paying well. I normally don’t take government jobs but this intrigues me. How about you and I meet for drinks? The Ox’s Horns on Poplar has a lovely balcony. It’s usually not open to the public but I did the owner a good turn. Meet me there tonight at eight and we can talk. I’ll ask for more details there, as well as concerns about my pay. _

_ Regards, _

_ Dismas _

He sends it without a second thought then shuts the laptop. Normally he’d catch a cab to The Ox’s Horns but it’s already near six and he can’t stand being idle for too long. The walk would be nice, and he could probably grab dinner on the way there. That one chip shop is on the way… He spends just a moment thinking on this before standing and grabbing his coat. Hm...maybe he should mend that hole in the sleeve before it becomes a problem. No, he doesn’t have the time. He pulls the old thing on and tugs the fur collar straight. Before he leaves, he wraps a red scarf around his neck to keep the chill out as he walks. Then, he locks the door behind him and walks into the crisp November air. 

The Ox’s Horns on Poplar is only noisy from six to seven. Dismas used to work there and always pulled the middle of rush shift. At eight, things start to quiet down. Perhaps because it’s in a posh neighborhood but he doesn’t care. All that matters is that it’s quiet. Dismas takes his beer to the balcony. No one else is out there, much better for business. By the time Liam Knight shows up, he’s two-thirds of the way through his drink. 

He raises his eyes, “Evenin’ Mr. Knight.”

Liam is a tall man, young, nervous looking, wears wide rimmed glasses with thick lenses, “Ah, good evening.”

“So, what can you tell me?”

Liam adjusts his glasses. He’s holding a wine glass. Odd. Dismas didn’t know that the Horns had any decent wine. Maybe Liam just doesn’t care. Dismas won’t pry, “I work for CERE, that is, Center for Extraterrestrial Research and Exploration. We’re a government founded organization devoted to, well, it’s in the acronym.”

Dismas nods sagely, tips his beer back, “Alright. All fine. What’s this job you have for me?”

“I am,” he pauses, stops, looks around nervously and sips his wine, “suspicious of what my organization is doing to say this least. I would like you to sneak in to where my supervisor keeps her files and take anything that looks important. I’ll wire your payment to you after you send me the files. The same email as before. That one is...just for communication with you. CERE doesn’t know I have it.”

Dismas finishes off his beer and draws his jacket tighter around himself. He thinks over this idea, chews on it for a moment, “I’m going to need a few more things from you.”

“Of course. Yes, ah, anything you need.”

“The cameras?”

“I will...disable the ones that view your route before I leave. They’re scheduled for maintenance soon anyway.”

“And my entry?”

“I can get you in,” he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out an ID. It reads Liam Knight but without the picture. However, there is a barcode on it, “the parking garage is unguarded after eleven and the door there will lead you in. After that it’s your first right, then your second left to the elevator. Bottom floor and that’s the lab. There’s no cameras in there and the main computer my supervisor uses is all the way against the wall in the glass cubicle. I’ve written the passwords you will need on the back of that ID. After you’re done there, just ditch the card. It would only indict you.”

Dismas turns the ID over in his hands a moment and nods slowly, “Very doable. I’ll go in tomorrow night then. You’ll have the files the next morning and you best pay well, Mr. Knight. I don’t usually break into government facilities.”

“Oh I will. You will be more than adequately compensated for your troubles.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Liam nods, tips his hat in farewell, then leaves. He’s even nice enough to take care of the bill. 

The next night, Dismas’ shoes barely make any sound on the concrete of the parking garage floor. He’d taken a cab to the local chip shop that was a short walk from CERE’s facility; Hampton’s Bioworks. It’s a rather innocuous looking modern building. Without the sign, Dismas would have thought it was some business building for stuffy meetings and whatnot. He definitely would not have thought  _ aliens _ at first glance. 

He reaches the door and touches Liam’s card to the scanner. The lock clicks, the door opens, and Dismas steps inside. He watches the camera that should be watching the door. It’s facing a wall. He keeps an eye on it for another few moments. It doesn’t move. He chuckles to himself, raises eyebrows and keeps walking.  _ So Mr. Knight really did come through for me.  _

The white tiled halls are empty except the intruder striding briskly through them. First right, second left, and he presses the button to call the elevator. He steps in. Bottom floor. The doors slide open and reveal a bunch of very professional looking devices. It does look a bit sinister but there is some personal bias that comes with it. He walks quietly over to the glass cubicle. 

Despite the fact that this is definitely one of his higher end jobs, Dismas isn’t as nervous as he could be, or should be for that matters. This seems a bit too easy, but he does have outside help which is rare enough, and it is rather straightforward. There’s no research, no needing to bribe off guards, none of that. He just needs to reach that glass cubicle.

His hip bumps into a corner of one of the tables lined with thick glass tubes. One rolls free and Dismas watches, mortified, as it drops to the floor with a dull thunk. Part of it cracks, but it holds. All the tension in his body floods out of him as it doesn’t shatter. In just a bit of a rush, he picks it up and sets it back where it sat. He does hold it for a moment though. The liquid inside is like nothing he’s ever seen. It’s thick and purple, almost like syrup, and it thrashes as if stirred by an invisible wind. He turns away from it. That’s not what he’s here for. 

The computer looks a bit ancient for such a modern building, but who’s Dismas to judge? He bends over it and taps in the first password, then the password for the locked files. As he plugs in the flash drive to start copying files over, a sudden chill comes over his body, as if the room suddenly developed a draft but there were no window. He brushes it off as nerves and finishes up the copy job. When he leaves, he leaves no trace, not even his fingerprints. It would be a bit of a task to track the very minor, late night intrusion. 

He slips the flash drive into his coat pocket and hums as he gets back into the elevator. Once he gets back up to the first floor, he goes to turn right out of the elevator when something in his head practically snarls at him.

_ No. Left _ . 

He has no choice but to obey, turning sharply left and ducking into a nearby darkened room when he hears the brisk, business-like footsteps of a security guard. Pressing himself into the wall, he counts the steps as the guard passes, then slips out once he’s a far enough distance from him. Thankfully, no further interruptions complicate his escape and he sneaks back out to hail a cab outside the same pub his last driver dropped him off. 

As soon as he’s home, he sends the files to Liam Knight, after of course cutting the ID into unrecognizable pieces and tossing them in the dumpster behind the deli two streets down. He sleeps well, sleeping in fact til late in the afternoon which is a bit bizarre for him. He brushes it off as nothing more than the late night he had. His phone blinks an email notification and he opens it to two of them. The first is from Liam, thanking him for his help and saying he has in fact wired the money to the account Dismas provided him last night. The second is the notification from his account that he’d just received a rather handsome sum of ten thousand pounds. He whistles low under his breath. That would definitely pay rent for quite some time. 

The afternoon is rather uneventful. Dismas mostly spends his time reading. It’s not a particularly  _ good  _ book, something cheap and easy to sell copies. It keeps him occupied enough to get him to work. 

The Bowman is quiet. No patrons of note, not even the rowdy kids that often come by on the weekend. Dismas doesn’t particularly mind. Everything is peaceful and he finds catharsis in the monotonous rhythm of making drinks, opening bottle tabs, the like. When his shift finally ends, some time around one, he steps out to take the last of the trash out just to help out Frida when she comes in for her four hours. 

He doesn’t see the other man in the alley before two bullets enter his chest. His breath gasps out between his teeth. His body hits the ground hard, hand over the two wounds. As the man in the alley turns to leave, he hears something about “shouldn’t poke your nose where it doesn’t belong”. 

His situation isn’t the best; he’s bleeding out in a back alley, probably with a punctured lung. At best, Frida will find his body. At worst, well he’d still be dead. Then, as he ponders his own demise, the pain stops. Is he really that close to death already? His body convulses. No, no, these aren’t death throes. Something leaves him. The bullets? No. The man leaving the alley cries out, but it’s cut off. Whatever left his body impaled the would-be assassin through the throat. 

_ Get up. _

That voice again. It’s the same one he heard back in CERE’s labs. He doesn’t question it or question the now dead (?) body at the entry to the alley. His hands go to his chest again. The wounds are closed. His shirt is still bloodied sure, but he’s got his jacket still in the bar. There is no pain, no wounds, even the bullets seemingly vanished. That, or they’re lying somewhere on the dark on the asphalt. Dismas has a lot of questions but at the moment, he’s getting his coat and leaving. 

Thankfully, no one is in the bar, or at least lucid in the bar. He grabs his coat, buttons it over the blood spots on his shirt, and leaves out through the alley. It’s the sensible thing to do, really. He’d draw less attention to himself, and if he’s really being honest, he’s curious as to what became of his assailant. 

As he steps over the body that’s thankfully still there and hasn’t also decided to miraculously recover, he notices something impaling the neck of the man that shot him. It isn’t a knife although it almost is. The closest thing he can place it as is a jagged shard of dusky purple translucent glass. He keeps walking.

He locks the door to his apartment behind him. Then unlocks it, locks it again just to make sure it’s  _ really _ locked. Once he’s sure that it is, he goes through and locks all of his windows. After the last lock clicks shut, he collapses against the wall, breathing out a shaky breath as the events of his night crash down on him. He’d settled down for a good night, left to take out the trash, and got shot. Wait.  _ He got shot _ . In a panic, albeit a rather controlled panic for his panics, he stands, looks to his own reflection as he unbuttons his jacket then lifts his bloody shirt. There is still blood, but no wounds. Was he really shot? No, no, no. He definitely was. Blood doesn’t just spontaneously appear on skin and soak into shirts. He drops his shirt, then decides to just take the bloody thing off. At least he bothers to hang his jacket up. 

Still in a bit of a panic, he makes his way to the kitchen, fetches a nicer glass, unstoppers the decanter of whiskey he was given as a gift last year, and pours a healthy amount. Then another “healthy” amount. This continues on for some time until he’s forgotten most of the night, and the past night, and honestly he didn’t remember the night before those very well in the first place. He staggers to bed, running into the counter twice on his way over, and flops down, falling unconscious before he could even consider getting the now dried blood off of himself.


End file.
